


Two Ropes

by beingdeadisaninherentlygayact



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Spring in Hieron Spoilers, Trans Character, Winter in Hieron Spoilers, seasons of hieron spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22703845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingdeadisaninherentlygayact/pseuds/beingdeadisaninherentlygayact
Summary: The origin of love, marriage, and coconuts (in passing)
Relationships: Samot/Samothes (Friends at the Table)
Kudos: 15





	Two Ropes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [willowthorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowthorn/gifts).



> Samothes finds himself wondering if there needs to be any other light this time.

A lower strata, not the first, but close enough to it. A golden brown hand catches a straw sunhat as Samot's curl's shake it free, a smile easily melting across Samothes' face as he watches him run out ahead. They are young still; Samot no longer a boy but not yet a king, happy to have a day of lenience. Samothes shifts the bulky bag in his other hand to squish his lover's hat in among the rest; books, journals, towels, fresh clothes, water, wine, and tightly wrapped lunches. Samol was in council with Severea and Galennica for the day, and insisted that the two of them need not be in attendance, sending them off to whichever corner of the world they felt like. To everyone's surprise, Samot did not have any issue with this—Samothes had half expected him to sulk half the time and argue against being sent from his father's side, but here he was, more wild than he'd been in some time, black sand kicking up a long trail behind him as he sprinted to the surf.

“Are you a wolf still?” Samothes calls, taking his time across the beach. Samot beams back at him, hair and fangs prismatic in the soft light of the bioluminescent algae. He sheds his clothes in a few quick motions and plunges into the water, fully submerging as soon as he is able. Samothes chuckles, setting their things in the sand a safe distance from the tide before retrieving Samot's clothes from the surf, giving them a quick shake and laying them out beside the rest. 

“Samothes, come join me!” He calls, finally breaking above the waves again, the smile thick in his voice. His father's accent is strong in his exuberance; the last time they got to humanoids they'd softened the accent of the earth, but his name in Samot's mouth was always rough and raw, tumbled from stone and stars, as Samol had taught him. Samothes could hardly see him for how far he'd gone and elected instead to set up a towel and watch the waves, journal and pen beside him just in case. “Suit yourself!” His lover calls, and dips back underwater with hardly a sound.

“I don't think I swim nearly as well as you,” He replies, absentmindedly weighing a wrought-iron ring in his hand. It has the expected weight and warmth, but the inside is still a bit rough. His brow furrows slightly as he pulls his finer tools from his pocket, meticulously shaving away stray barbs of metal. He slips into it so easily that he struggles to put it away, not hearing Samot as he wades out of the black ocean, white fur matted with algae that he shakes loose, slowly shedding his coat and wrapping it about his shoulders as he trots back across the sand. 

“What would father say if he caught you working on your vacation day?” He teases, leaning over to inspect the work Samothes had hurriedly set aside and gasping as he deftly pulls him down onto his lap. Samot at play is easily distracted, a wide smile spreading as Samothes combs his fingers through his now drenched golden mop, small pieces of algae still shining here and there forming a rainbow halo around his head.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathes, and Samot chuckles, pressing close and kissing him deeply. Samothes runs both hands down his sides, smiling against his mouth as he flinches against the featherlight contact from his rough, calloused hands. His face is pressed into the fur against Samot's shoulder, between his legs, crowning his head as they rest. Samot is asleep for now, soft breaths in time with the ebb of the tide. His whole body shines in the dark, and Samothes finds himself wondering if there needs to be any other light this time. 

This strata is still young, and they have yet to make it habitable for sapient life this time. The last strata went poorly for everyone, and Severea decided to take control this time, making quiet, gentle life that could live in the dark. The glowing algae was her work, and most of the land was lit by similar lichen or luminescent stones created by Galennica in collaboration. In this state there was not much for Samothes to do, especially since Galennica seemed keen to keep control of the forge for their own purposes. Samol always preferred things that grew in the sunlight, though, so he was inclined to keep working at it. Eventually the other two would get tired of living an easy life of watching blind animals pull themselves along on their bellies and foraging for fungi, but Samothes enjoyed the quiet. 

As though sensing his weakness, Samot's eyes flutter open, and he pulls himself up to look into Samothes', gold boring into black. “What's keeping you from making the sun this time? I think that's what the council is for today.”

He hums in response, stroking the back of Samot's head and neck lazily. 

“I'm not complaining, I love to run in the dark. But I think Severea is getting very tired of not being able to make anything new. It's a little funny, actually.” He grins, rubbing his head into Samothes' hand. “Definitely let her stay mad for a little while, I think she's fixing to fight with Galennica for kicking you out of the forge and I really want to see trouble in their paradise.”

“You're horrid,” Samothes laughs, and Samot rolls off of him to avoid being jostled too much. “It's been hard to keep up with work, but I might be getting somewhere.”

“Oh? Share,” Samot grins, propping his head up on one hand and holding the other out expectantly. Samothes pulls a bottle of wine from their bag and swings it into his waiting grasp, unable to stop a smile as he watches Samot deftly rip the cork out with his teeth and take a long swig in the same motion.

“I think maybe having some control over the sun would placate them, if it could go down when we needed, or stay up as long as we wanted...”

“You didn't have control over it before?”

“I didn't think I needed it, really, but you saw how things got. So, in the interest of not tanning the earth like old leather, I've been trying to work it out.”

Samot tilts his head and frowns. “What part of it is getting you stuck?”

“It—I—It's hard to explain,” He struggles, and Samot's eyebrows shoot up.

“Struggling for words? I can help. Show me it,” He reaches across Samothes' chest, and he seizes his hand in his own.

“No, Samot, I need to find them myself, I--” Samothes takes a deep breath and squeezes Samot's hand, smiling as he squeezes back and wiggles back up onto his lap, stroking his hair with his free hand. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Samot presses his forehead to Samothes', nuzzling noses. “You'll figure it out.”

“We'll figure it out,” Samothes ventures, and Samot's eyes narrow.

“You're trying to play at something, Samothes, and you're doing a poor job of hiding it. What really has you in such a tangle? I can't help you if you don't tell me.”

His name again, raw and soft on Samot's lips, strikes his heart like hammer on steel. His hand moves to the ring, turning it over in his fingers and taking one last moment to weigh it. 

“My idea,” he ventures, reaching to brush a golden curl behind Samot's ear and lingering on his cheek, the coolness of his skin sharp against the heat of his palm, “is to keep the sun close, to have someone to help judge when it is too harsh, or when it is lacking. To marry strong construction to strong conviction for a stronger execution.” Samothes squeezes the ring and savors its chill, then presses it into Samot's hand. He turns it over in his fingers, not breaking eye contact, then slips it on. As the sun rises they fold into each other, Samot pressing Samothes' head close against his chest and laughing.

They make humanoids again, and for centuries tales are told of the wolf that chases the sun across the sky all day and brings it to Samothes' hearth in the evening. Then they have the ceremony, sunlight glimmering off the sand and sea and Samot's golden hair and the silver crown in Samothes' hands, locking eyes with his wolf before he dips his head with a smile to accept it. They dance in the surf, barefooted and laughing as Samol plays a sprightly tune on his guitar. When they tire they sprawl out on the hot sand, hands clasped, and Samot eases a tree up from the soil; thin and curved with a refreshing cast of shade. They crack open its fruit and quench their dry throats, sharing with their guests and their family until Samot is finally spent, pulling his ring off and snuggling into his husband's shoulder.

When they tire of this strata he leaves the ring with a dear friend, pressing it into her hand before they leave. In the dark of a new world another ring is forged, and another ring is left in the care of a close family, again and again, passing down through generations in marriage as the sun quickly sets, as their family continues upwards through dozens of stratas. Each is more shocked than the last as Samot becomes gaudier, his other fingers glimmering with jewels and polished perfect metals as they unfold to reveal something so raw and simple. 

Samot takes the ring from Samothes each time, and each ceremony is as heartfelt as all the ones before it, though their father tires of playing sooner each time, and they spend less and less time dancing. Centuries and more later, he builds them a house in a sea of golden grasses, and once more they are wed. This time in the quiet comfort of what they hope will be their final home; just the three of them, a bottle of apple wine, and a pot of stew. They fill the house with love and light and it spills into the world around them, towns and cities and farms and a child, perfectly golden like the light in the grasses, in Samot's hair, through their windows on a warm afternoon. Confidence Alive finds the ring in their tiny fingers and aching gums more often than not; when they are old enough to speak they ask their father why it is so different from his others. Samot turns it on his finger with his thumb, slowly and tenderly, and a smile spreads across his lips as he pulls his child close.

“You see how the other rings shine, just like the sun?” Maelgwyn nods, eyes following the reflected light like one of the cats, fingers in their mouth. “I'm not quite like papa. Granddad made him himself like the soil and flowers and mountains, but granddad pulled me out of the night sky. All I knew how to do for a very long time was eat stories, just like you!” He tousles his child's hair and they laugh, little feet thumping against his thighs. “So a very long time ago, papa asked me to eat the sunlight so it didn't burn all day, and this ring is the same. See how it holds the light to it?” He points out the windows, and Maelgwyn follows his finger. “And when it's time for the sun to sleep...” He pulls the ring off, and the sun begins to set. Maelgwyn wiggles in his lap for a moment then runs to the windows to watch, Samot taking the opportunity to stand and walk to the bedside, setting the ring in its place on their little table before he begins taking his other adornments off, crossing the room to leave them in his jewelry box. “Why don't we go get papa?” Maelgwyn runs back into his arms and they leave the bedroom, padding down the soft rug over the stairs, passing the kitchen doorway where Samol is humming while he cooks, down the long long hallway that only feels like a few steps, to the heavy door to the forge, helpfully left open a wolf-sized crack. Confidence Alive clambers onto their father's shoulders with practiced sureness as he drops to all fours and squeezes through, catching them with a hand as they swing back down around his neck ruff and he stands again. Together they cross the walkway of black glass discs suspended in the gloam of the distant core, the ring of the hammer suddenly present and perfectly matched to Samot's stride as he reaches one hand out, a soft touch between his husband's working shoulders. 

“Is it time already?” He puts the hammer down before he turns, soot up his apron and dusting his cheeks and hair, arms spreading as Samot folds into him, Maelgwyn's little hand on his shoulder as they are pressed gently between their fathers. 

Samot's bare hand rests on the cooling anvil every night for centuries more, until the door to the forge no longer opens. He sits on the back porch alone for days on end, one hand over his ring finger, staring only at the reflection on the long grasses and never into the sky. Every night it finds its place on the bedside table, every day on his finger, later some days than others. It takes a place on his desk at the university, turning under his thumb and grinding under his teeth while he works. The metal digs into him strangely when he holds a sword, when he holds his mask to his face; it never feels quite right until his hand finds the anvil again, the sound of it running along the metal echoing softly through the husk of the forge. It feels warm when he takes up the hammer, when he shares his meals with two cobbins, when he unclasps his cloak for a mortal man the first time. It is cold when his child dies. In the river, riddled with metal of similar darkness, his fist stays clenched around his ring until it, too, digs into his flesh; in the phantasmal surf it heats to burning, stirring him as he is folded into his husband's arms again.

**Author's Note:**

> im not expecting anyone to have read this. i only come on this site to show my ass and ghost so im not accepting criticism because i wrote this for me! and my fiance i guess but mostly me. be polite. fun fact i started writing this about a quarter of the way into spring so a few months after i started austin just hand delivered some hot and fresh material directly into my nasty little pizza hands.


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